The Stars Look Down
by blinkblink
Summary: LeBeau is sent on a mission that takes on an unexpectedly vital significance for French culture; unfortunately, Carter is along to slow him down. LeBeau-Carter friendship focused fic. Written for 2010 Help Haiti.


Disclaimer: Don't own the show or the characters.

Notes: This was written originally for errant_evermore in the 2010 Help Haiti fundraiser over on Livejournal.

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><p>It was February. The third February since the war had broken out, the second February since the fall of France, and the first full February LeBeau would spend in LuftStalag 13.<p>

February in the Stalag was all cold nights and frozen ground and crisp air, the smell of frost and wood fires. The days, beginning to warm just to melting point, were filled with the patter of dripping icicles. The nights, as always, were broken from the outside by boots crunching on frosty dirt and guard-dogs whining, from the inside by men turning and snoring and occasionally whimpering in their sleep.

A year and a half since General de Gaulle had given his request for all free French to continue the fight as they could where they could. LeBeau found that while he could hardly argue with the work he had done – infinitely more than any French POW in any other camp, or even most of the Free French in France herself – so little of it helped his country, his people, directly. Perhaps there were other Stalag 13s, other Colonel Hogans – a difficult thing to imagine – working to bring as much confusion and trouble to the invaders who styled themselves lords and masters in his homeland and the dirty collaborators sitting at their right hands eating their scraps. Perhaps, but LeBeau had no knowledge of them. He worked to help the war, a proud and necessary task, but he would have given his right hand to strike even only one direct blow against the pigs enslaving his nation.

LeBeau smiled grimly, stirring the afternoon's stew. It was hardly a line of thought the colonel would approve of, or the other two Americans in the heart of the camp's sabotage unit. The Americans were, LeBeau considered in his most irritated and uncharitable moods, like unruly children. No understanding of the hurt, the fear, the rage that ran in the blood of their European allies. Just an energetic, unconcerned conviction that eventually things would go their way if only the Frogs and the Limeys would get out of the way and let them drive. No ability or attempt to understand what _eventually_ could mean to those on whose soil this war was being fought.

Newkirk, he thought, understood. Newkirk, who knew exactly what it was to sit about doing nothing in the heart of the enemy's territory while his home was blasted to rubble and his siblings' lives were risked nightly merely by sleeping in their home. But even Newkirk didn't have filthy dictators and traitors smearing their taint through his capital, in his parliament and museums, fondling and outraging his women.

LeBeau, so deep in his dark fuming that he tipped nearly a tablespoon of pepper into the pot rather than a teaspoon, picked up on the rattling of the tunnel opening only as background noise. When Kinch hurried by heading for the colonel's quarters, LeBeau drew no line of connection, in fact hardly noticed at all. It was only when the colonel emerged along with his XO to summon the attention of his men that LeBeau put down his stirring spoon, idle frustration melting away with the prospect of work.

The colonel was bright-eyed as always; like an electric bulb, he nearly hummed with his ever-present keen energy. Now he was looking around at his men, waiting to see that they were paying attention. They were, as much as ever. Newkirk had rested his cards face down on the table, sleeve suspiciously close by, to turn his face up to his CO. Carter, weaker at feigning attention but stronger at actually paying it – or beginning to, at least – had put down his own cards to watch with an unconscious frown of concentration. Kinch moved over to keep an eye on the door, back to the room.

Hogan didn't wait to cut straight to the heart of the matter. "We just had a communication from the Underground. They've got a visitor with some information for us, and need someone to meet him to pick it up."

Newkirk, who hadn't been out in two weeks, straightened immediately. "I volunteer, sir! I'll run the dangerous gauntlet of patrols and searches to collect vital information for the war effort." His shift had dislodged a card up his sleeve; LeBeau could see the corner peeking out from underneath the cuff of his jacket. He rolled his eyes.

Hogan ignored the enthusiasm. "Very patriotic, Newkirk, but the meeting point isn't downtown; no girls. And anyway, they've made a specific request: they need a French speaker. Our courier's French."

LeBeau's heart soared so fast it made his chest ache. It had been months since they had last met a Frenchman, months since he had had a chance to speak anything but toneless, slothful English. Months since he had real, vivid news of home. He snapped his back straight and clicked his heels, nearly slewing stew across the room from the spoon in his hand in his hurry to salute. "_Mon Colonel, je m'engage!_ I volunteer!"

Hogan nodded absently, corner of his mouth crooking. "Great. I kind of had you in mind. And Carter, you can go too."

Both LeBeau and the American startled; Carter to look at Hogan and LeBeau to look at him.

"Why him?"

"Why me?"

Hogan waved a vague hand for silence. "You'll be going right up to the outskirts of town; they've set the rendezvous for the old book warehouse. That means you need a strong German speaker –" Newkirk began to protest, and Hogan cut right through him, "And someone who's not going to be distracted by the first girl he sees in the event any _do _happen to be out."

Carter stiffened. "That's unfair, sir! I would too be distracted. If she were nice, and had a sweet personality and maybe was kind of funny – a girl's gotta have plenty of humour – and my mother always said it was important to look for –"

"Alright, alright," conceded Newkirk, elbowing him in the side to shut him up.

LeBeau turned to the colonel. "You're sending him along to make sure I don't have fun?"

"I can too have fun," muttered Carter, ignored by everyone.

"Pretty much," conceded Hogan shamelessly. "I don't need you and your contact spending half the night gassing about the latest _patisserie_ in the Champs-Élysées. That information's top-priority; we need it back as soon as possible."

"I mean, when I was a kid all I ever did was fool around," continued Carter, droning away in the background.

"You rob me of all my amusements," said LeBeau sulkily.

Newkirk leant across the table to slap his arm. "Cheer up, mate. You're on kitchen duty tomorrow; you can whip up something fun."

LeBeau glared at him. "I am French and a soldier before a cook," he replied sternly, hardly in the mood to deal with jokes.

"Yeah, but you don't have the opportunity to enjoy either of those much in here."

"_Précisement_," spat LeBeau, leaning forward.

"…and then that one time I set up an entire marble run in the store, took me all afternoon and it went right over the door." In the pause Carter's low murmur jumped suddenly into prominence.

"Okay, enough of that," cut in Hogan, pulling LeBeau back and putting an end to Carter's monologue. "LeBeau, you and Carter'll go out right after evening roll-call as civilians, you both have papers?" He waited for their nods and then continued straight on. "Kinch has the map; review it before you go. Get there, get the information, and get back ASAP. No prolonged chatting," he glanced at LeBeau, "And no stopping in town for fun," he looked back to Carter. "Clear?"

They both nodded, LeBeau still feeling cut down, Carter looking mildly put-out.

"Yes, sir," they chorused.

"Good."

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><p>It was a cold night. The sky was clear, crescent moon white and distant in the black sky, tiny stars sparkling like fish scales in the sharp crispness. The searchlights sliced through the night as always, artificial light passing yellow and unnatural over the men standing in their two lines. Over the Kommandant, bellowing for his report, over the rotund figure of Schultz, hurrying forward to give it. It caught the freezing icicles and dashed tiny strips of rainbows over the barracks wall for an instant before sweeping them away just as quickly.<p>

All men present and accounted for, LeBeau itching to get going, they were just being dismissed when there was a tubercular coughing from deep in the shadows on the other side of the wire. It resolved into the gritty grumbling of a badly-tuned engine, wheezing its way slowly along the road leading past the camp.

Everyone, Klink and Schultz included, turned to watch the grey truck limp along past the gates. Its black iron cross glinted dully in the searchlights, antennae shining like the silver stems of some strange plant. A radio-detection truck.

It continued some little way and then, with a final pathetic wheeze, crawled to a halt at the side of the road and allowed its engine to die. The antennae continued to swivel.

The Germans dismissed the sight as unimportant; Klink turned to return to the Kommandantur, Schultz to take up his rounds.

The men began filing slowly into the barracks, proceeding sloppily and with much chatter and light-heated shoving, buying time for their CO to scope out the truck. By the time the guards began hustling them to re-enter the barracks, the truck still hadn't shown any signs of starting up again.

LeBeau had his civilian clothes on under his loose coat and pants, ready to go with his second coat and hat waiting in the tunnel, but the situation had changed too severely. They gathered around the table, Newkirk and Kinch seating themselves while he and Carter stood, waiting for the decision on whether to continue with the mission or not.

Hogan made one slow turn of the confined barracks before halting in front of the stove, arms crossed and face closed. Finally, he looked up at them. LeBeau didn't have to wait to be told; he could read the colonel's answer in his dark eyes and straightened accordingly. They would go.

"We don't have any reason to think this is anything other than a routine check. Nothing delivered to Klink, no news from the Underground of a crack-down. If the Gestapo were trying to close in on us in secret, they wouldn't send a truck limping along right up to our doorstep to warn us about it. Whatever that courier's got, it's important. And if he doesn't speak enough German to convey it to the Underground, the longer he hangs around here the more danger he's in. We need to get his message and get him out of here. If the truck's not gone by the time we need to send the information, we'll try to get rid of it from here."

He was working the details out as he spoke, LeBeau could tell. Arguing his course out for himself, as if they weren't all there listening to him. LeBeau considered it a sign of his trust in them. Or perhaps the colonel was just trying to convince them of the importance of the mission, to convey to them the need to risk their lives for it. It hardly mattered to LeBeau; he had been convinced from the word Frenchman. He looked to Carter, following the colonel's words with careful concentration, and jogged his elbow.

"Well, what are we waiting for? _Allons-y!_"

Important listening over with, Carter nodded, face clearing. "Okay. Let's go!"

LeBeau rolled his eyes.

The others came with them down into the tunnel, Kinch giving them the directions to the warehouse again, Newkirk running a quick professional eye over their papers while they shook off their over-clothes and pulled on their civilian coats and hats. Tucked pistols and torches in their belts, and then pocketed their approved papers. Then it was the all-clear from Kinch at the telescope and up the ladder, out into the night.

The air was always fresh coming from the barracks to the outside, but coming out of the stuffy, moist tunnels it was almost like a slap in the face. LeBeau scrambled over the lip of the hollow stump and half-ran, half-crawled along the line the first man out always took to duck behind a sturdy bush, hiding from the spotlight's searching glare. A moment later Carter shot out of the hole like an over-sized rabbit, dropping the lid shut behind him and dashing along the second man's line. They both waited for the second sweep of the light and then ran, slicing through the well-known forest in smooth lines until they were out of range of the spotlight. LeBeau dreamed of those hundred yards sometimes; he knew he would hold the image of them in his head long after he left the camp for good, if he ever did.

Although they all knew the woods nearest to the tunnel better than their homes from sheer necessity mixed with terror, after those first hundred yards their knowledge of the paths through the forest was more a matter of direction than memorized trails. It was just as well in any case; any consistently-taken path would eventually draw the attention of the guards who patrolled the woods.

They passed through the woods without speaking; it could hardly be said to be silently, since even in winter when the deciduous trees had lost their leaves and stood like overgrown coat-stands in the night it was too dark to step quietly while walking at any speed. LeBeau, eager and impatient to get to the rendezvous, hurried along first as carefully as he could. Carter followed in his wake, breaking through more underbrush and kicking through more shrubs in his effort to keep up, but knocking into fewer trees. Apart from listening to make sure he hadn't lost the American, LeBeau mostly ignored him. Carter meant well, but he didn't understand. He wasn't even here of his free will, had been drafted by his government and sent to risk his life for a cause he didn't know, didn't necessarily believe in. How _could_ he understand?

Anxious to know what was so important to bring a Frenchman all the way to Hammelburg, to have news of the fight at home, of his people and his country and his city, LeBeau found Carter's loose-limbed slowness increasingly irritating. Of course he meant well, tried hard. But even more than Hogan and Kinchloe who had chosen to fight and at least partially comprehended what was at stake, Carter was … just there. A country boy out here to follow Uncle Sam's orders and maybe have a chance to have some fun with his explosive toys. Who didn't understand that every second he wasted, every trip he made, might be meaning lives and land and liberty to LeBeau's people.

The Frenchman hissed at Carter to hurry, and threw himself forward at a faster pace through the dark woods.

* * *

><p>They cut through the woods for as long as they could before taking on the road; while it was the quicker route, two men walking along it after dark was too suspicious to risk. They made good time – although he couldn't help but thinking they would have made better if Carter had hurried more – and reached the outskirts of Hammelburg some twenty minutes after setting out.<p>

The city was black as always, windows smothered up in thick cloth, street lamps unlit or darkened with covers which slanted their light directly downwards. Cars trundled through the paved streets, dark shapes with only tiny slivers for headlights to show them up against the darkness, dangers to be avoided mainly by sound. The few pedestrians who were out kept well away from the kerb and crossed the roads in hurried dashes after several long seconds of listening.

As soon as they hit the main paved streets they were forced to abandon their awkward trot and take up a more normal stroll, managing just a hint of briskness by turning up their collars and jamming their hands into their pockets as if colder than they were. Even with a strong breeze, LeBeau doubted it was much below freezing point.

Now and then a car rumbled by; just a sound and a sliver of dark sheen from the street lights as they were, it was impossible to distinguish civilian vehicles from staff cars, to pick up a hint of any heightened Gestapo or SS presence in the city. There was nothing to warn them if anything unusual were happening. But that in itself was usual; the risks they ran were often blind.

The book warehouse, chosen for its many dark corners and the second-storey door which was easily accessible and never locked, was in a more industrial section of the outskirts. They hurried past old brick buildings with wooden roofs, past cobbled alleys and small factories stinking of smoke and diesel. The whole sector would have been a prime target for bombing if Hammelburg had been much larger; as it was they still took hits now and then – there were the empty lots to prove it. Hopefully the RAF had other places to be tonight.

The warehouse they were headed for was a small one, a depository for many of the bookstores in town as well as the local schools and technical colleges. With the war shortage of paper and capital for book-buying, its stocks were much depleted and the dark space inside was convenient for large meetings if necessary. LeBeau had no idea who owned the building, but for security the Underground rarely met in locations associated with its members. Probably some German capitalist unaware of the nature of the use his building was being put to in the night time hours.

The building itself was older than its neighbours, made of stone rather than dirty brick. Its doors were arched and painted a chipping blue, its windows small and placed high in the second storey. In the alley to the left of the main entrance stood what had previously been the main entrance before a clay and pottery warehouse sprung up beside the building. Above it a set of smaller doors was set into the stone to grant access to what had once been a second storey in the building, the rusty holes in the stone showing where a metal staircase had once stood to grant access to it. Portions of the stonework had been built out to lend extra support to the staircase, and unlike the long-since scrapped metal they remained. With a little effort, they were easily scaled.

They approached the alley slowly, walking all the way past and around the building once before returning to the proper side. There were no cars nearby, no unusual activity, no one in the street.

"Looks clear," whispered LeBeau, glancing at Carter in the shadow of the pottery warehouse. The American nodded slowly, wire-framed glasses trembling slightly with the motion.

"I guess," he said slowly, still looking from side to side. LeBeau held in a sigh; the man only had two modes – too fast, or too slow.

"Let's go," he said, forestalling any further procrastination from Carter. The sergeant didn't object, and LeBeau hopped across the alley and, with a last glance around, scrambled up the side of the building.

He had made the climb twice before; the first time had been difficult, but once he found the trick to keeping his balance it was easily remembered, and he mounted up to the door now without trouble. The door was merely pushed closed, not locked; he pulled the door open on silent hinges and stepped forward to squat on the door frame.

The inside of the warehouse was entirely dark, tiny windows not enough to provide light in the darkness. LeBeau squinted into the sea of black for a moment, then pulled out his torch and flicked it twice, once, twice. Inside there was an answering flash, two quick flicks. The proper signal. LeBeau turned the torch on again briefly to check his landing – a stack of textbooks – and dropped in. The books were slippery but solid under his feet, and he hurried to climb down from the pile to free the way for Carter.

A moment later there was a quiet scuffle above him, and LeBeau looked up to see a faint silhouette against the sky.

"There's a pile of books three feet down," whispered LeBeau. Carter dropped in, then stood to push the door closed behind him.

"_Monsieur_," said a quiet voice beside him, out of the darkness. LeBeau leapt, heart pounding, and spun to face its source.

"_Mon Dieu que vous m'avez effrayé_," he panted, hand to his chest.

"_Desolée_," responded the same voice, and sounded slightly chagrined.

There was a thump as Carter hopped down from the stack of books, and then the American bumped into him.

"LeBeau?"

"Yes," said LeBeau shortly. And then, for the benefit of the stranger, continued in French, "We've been sent to meet you, we heard you have important information for us."

"Yes," said the contact, immediately. His accent, although mostly Parisian, held a hint of a Gascon drawl. "It is of the utmost importance, and must be relayed to London immediately; only they know who to contact with it. You are aware that all the artwork which was transportable was removed from the Louvre at the outbreak of the war?"

LeBeau nodded, gesture meaningless in the dark, and so spoke up. "Yes, I heard so. Supposedly it was hidden somewhere in the countryside?"

"Exactly. In fact, it was divided up and hidden in several locations. Some of them have been changed several times as we feared they were close to being discovered. So far the greatest part of the art, the most important pieces, has been kept safe."

LeBeau felt a flare of hot pride even as icy fear began to trickle through his veins; it was clear enough what was coming.

"Two days ago, I was in Berlin. While there, I discovered that the filthy _Bosche_ have nearly discovered the location of the most important cache; they have the name of the nearest village, and are gathering troops to search the area. I do not usually work in Germany; it has taken me this long to get in contact with a member of the Underground who spoke French and could radio to London. You must tell them that the Nazis have discovered that there is an art cache at Château de Saumur. It must be moved immediately, _instantly_, if they are not to get their dirty hands on our treasures. London must contact the Free French in the area and tell them."

LeBeau felt the hair on the back of his neck standing with a cold thrill, with the shock of the importance of the information. In his imagination, shadowy troops were already approaching the ancient castle, creeping up on its deep vaults packed tight with priceless art with clutching, grasping hands.

"My God," he whispered. And then, shaking himself into action, "I understand. We will relay the information immediately. _Vive la France_."

"_Vive la France_," repeated the faceless voice with intensity.

"What's going on?" asked Carter curiously from behind his shoulder. LeBeau turned.

"We are leaving _immediatement_ – immediately," he corrected himself. "We must –"

He stopped, staring. Above them, he could see stars set in the wall.

Not the wall, his mind immediately corrected. The sky. The door was hanging wide open. And set against the velvet sky, barely visible, a figure in black.

"_Courez_," he hissed. "_Run, run!_" He fumbled for Carter in the dark as their contact turned and broke off in scuffling steps. Behind them a light flashed on, and a machine gun's rapid fire shattered the quiet. LeBeau slammed around a corner, lost his grip on Carter's sleeve and cannoned on ahead, shoulder slamming against a stack of books as he barely found the aisle and kept running. Behind him, men were shouting in German, shouting after them, shouting to each other; with the shock and fear driving through him like a wildfire he couldn't bring any sense to the words. He turned blindly, arms held out in front of him sweeping wildly, and found another aisle. Dashed forward thankfully, and sprinted full force into something hard and unforgiving.

He was on the floor before he realised what had happened, head a hot tangled nest of pain, thoughts tumbling against each other like marbles shaken in a cup. Somewhere in the darkness there were more shots, echoing like thunder in the enclosed warehouse. The shock of the sound forced sense into him and he rolled to his hands and knees and then pulled himself up to his feet against the hard surface he had run up against – the building wall, he realised, feeling the rough stone under his gloves.

More shots, not automatic this time, and a gargling cry. Then footsteps near him, boots running on the ancient flagstones. He ducked in low against the wall, one more shadow in a room of shadows. The footsteps slowed, the papery rustle of a hand against a wall of books as whoever it was searched for an aisle in the dark. His mind, doing unfamiliar arithmetic with a brilliance spurred by adrenaline, attached meaning to sound and told him that it was a military step impeded slightly by a long coat. LeBeau, heart in his throat, reached back for his pistol.

It wasn't there.

His heart slammed painfully into his chest as if covered in broken glass, panic surging through him. He put down a hand to search for it on the floor, and then froze when he heard the quiet whisper of leather against stone, loud as a horn in the silence. The footsteps near him had ceased.

He was panting, he realised, and when he locked his jaw and tried to slow his breathing it just made the intense thirst for air in his throat burn all the hotter, scorching him. LeBeau reached out again, fingers hovering above the ground this time, and swept about for his gun.

Somewhere ahead, someone was walking quietly. It could only be Carter, or their contact. Closer to him, the soldier shifted. Raising his gun to strife, doubtless. LeBeau turned on his heels to search frantically with both hands. He knocked against something metallic and snatched it up desperately; it was long and round. His torch. He nearly sobbed, sweat running down his back, breathes rattling between his teeth. Behind him now, the soldier's boot scratched against the stone as he braced himself to fire. No more time.

LeBeau, flashlight held in bloodless fingers, dashed forward through the blackness at the same time that the soldier squeezed the trigger, gunfire ripping into the silence. In the flashing light of flaring gunpowder, LeBeau tacked straight into him and drove the butt of the torch at his head with all his strength. He felt it catch the man a glancing blow as the gun was dropped, and then a sharp elbow slammed into his side even as they fell together, the motion twisting him to lie bottom-most.

They slammed into the ground hard, his opponent's elbow still set against his ribs and centering a crushing weight there. Then LeBeau was kicking and punching, twisting and turning and scrambling under the suffocating weight as he fought for air. The only sound he could hear was his heart throbbing in his ears, growing louder as his struggles grew wilder, and then a bizarre rushing like wind, like running water, and he wasn't even sure why that was bizarre, didn't know why it should be, why –

There was a bright light in his face, sweeping over him like a searchlight, and even with no breath in his body he ducked instinctively. Then it went out and he was abruptly free, coughing and gasping as he sucked in deep breaths and tried to remember why he had to, why his heart was pounding like a church bell's knells in his head, so loud he must be shaking with it. There was cold stone beneath him he found as he crawled onto his side, and then someone was pulling at his shoulders, shaking him.

Everything came rushing back all at once, a tornado carrying back everything the lack of oxygen had swept away. He was lying in a warehouse with a splitting head and burning ribs because they had been found, been attacked. And then, second line of thought branching out lightning-fast from the first: warehouse – contact – the Louvre – radio London. He sat up so fast he nearly smacked into Carter, leaning above him, the American's hands on his shoulders.

"Louis?" said Carter, voice shaking. "Are you okay?"

"Shh," he replied, and then, whispering as low as he could, "Let's go."

"What about your contact?"

LeBeau clenched his teeth, heart aching. "It's too dangerous. Come on." They could only hope he had found his own way out. Could only hope _they _could find their way out. He would understand; that, they could only believe.

Fear of discovering rushing over him anew, he let Carter tug him up to his feet and stepped forwards. Tripped over something lying in the middle of the stone floor and had to bite his lip to keep from cursing, and then when his mind tallied up the sensation of heavy movement, from gasping.

It was a body. He had swung his torch at the man's head, he remembered dimly, but he had kept fighting after that. There was no time for worrying about it now; one fewer Nazi was nothing to worry about in any case. Carter followed him, moving stiffly and breathing fast.

They jogged through the darkness like children through a maze, searching for an exit they weren't certain of. They couldn't get out the way they had come; whoever had found them might well have marked it. There were no more footsteps in the building, perhaps some lucky pair of guards patrolling the area had happened to notice the upper door pulled open in the breeze and investigated. Perhaps someone had noticed them scrambling up into the building after all and called the SS.

Perhaps a whole squad of Gestapo was surrounding the building.

They made a turn and came up against a wall, a wooden wall that gave when they pushed. The door. LeBeau scrambled for the heavy handle, and found it locked. He twisted it helplessly, jaw locked against the torrent of frustration trying to pour out. If only the colonel had sent Newkirk instead of Carter.

"We have to find another exit," whispered LeBeau harshly when he had mastered his tongue, feeling like a trapped rat in a room of terriers, real panic setting in around him like a thick cloud. His thoughts were all tangled in each other, fears and facts and instincts tumbling over each other as he tried to pull out the right reaction and suppress the dozens of wrong ones.

"They'll all be locked," returned Carter without moving, voice taut as violin-string one twist from breaking. And then, without saying anything, moved sharply. The door splintered open with a bang.

LeBeau blinked, shocked into incomprehension by the move that hadn't even occurred to him. And then Carter had grabbed him and was pulling him out of the door he'd just kicked open.

They came out into the alley on the other side of the building from their entrance, into the slightly lighter darkness of the city's night and the moving air filled with dirt and exhaust and the mingled smell of wood and coal fires. There was no one waiting for them.

They ran like rabbits through back alleyways and over low fences, ducking into doorways at the first hum of an approaching engine. LeBeau was operating on the very edge of his instincts, minutes ahead of his last well-considered thought, moving and reacting by sense alone. It felt dangerous, uncontrolled, like skating down a steep hill on a thin blade, aware that the least bump would send him flying into thin air.

He gradually became aware that they weren't being pursued, that they had run a good four blocks with no sign of danger. That his head was aching as if the skull had been split, making it hard to concentrate on anything, and that there was a red-hot stitch in his side. And that Carter, leading the way with his false glasses flashing now and then in the shuttered street-lights, seemed unlike himself to be genuinely in control of his pace and direction.

It was enough to let LeBeau slide out of the slip-stream of adrenaline. The world around lost some of its high degree of contrast, sharp lines and edges fading into less perceptible shadows, and a light layer of cotton wool seemed to fall over his ears. His heartbeat slowed to a perceptible rhythm, and he began to be able to pick individual thoughts out of the tangle.

He continued to follow Carter thoughtlessly, the taller man's movements still slightly gangling and loose-limbed, still trying to catch his breath against the burning stitch in his side. Able to think again, LeBeau's thoughts descended on him in a bright whirlwind, whipped around him in a tight circle as the same conversation played itself out over and over again. _So far the greatest part of the art has been kept safe... The Nazis have discovered the art cache… It must be moved instantly if they're not to get their dirty hands on our treasures. _He grit his teeth, bile rising in his throat. For all he knew, the Nazis had just killed the man who had delivered the message. _The art has been kept safe… The Nazis… dirty hands…our treasures…_ They had to contact London, had to send the message _now_, had to save those treasures. Couldn't let them fall to the Nazis; they had already taken too much, defiled too much, destroyed too much.

LeBeau stumbled over a mound of unforgiving dirt, frosty in the February night, and came abruptly to a stop with no idea where they were. Without his realising it they had passed out of the outskirts and were now walking through the outlying farming district, air thick with the smell of frost and wet rotting vegetation, the remains of last year's crop. Just as abruptly, a single thought broke the spinning circle of frantic desperation to return to camp and send the message like a hammer against glass: the radio-truck.

LeBeau stopped so suddenly he nearly fell, reached forward and grabbed Carter's elbow so tight the man spun under his hand and had to turn wide to keep his balance.

"Where are we going?" he demanded, skull feeling like it was splitting with the sudden shock.

Carter came to a stop right in front of him, a grey figure in the starlight. "Back to camp," he said slowly after a minute, sounding confused.

"No – that's no good. We need a radio, we must contact London. Now, as soon as possible." He was wringing his hands, he realised, and crammed them into his pockets.

"Louis, we have a radio in camp," said Carter, even more slowly now.

"I know that," snapped LeBeau heatedly, irritation flashing hot and bright through him. "_Think_, Carter. There is a radio-detection truck near the camp. We can't send a message while it's there."

"So we'll get rid of it. We've done it before."

"And how long will that take? A day, two days, a week? We have no _time_."

Carter shifted, concerned now for the mission rather than LeBeau. "Why, what's the message? Are they invading England?"

It was only now that LeBeau remembered that Carter had no idea what they had been talking about in the warehouse, what kind of vital information had been passed. Still, the need to take the time to explain it to him rankled, minutes bleeding away.

He waved Carter's question aside thoughtlessly, and cut right to the heart of the matter. "No, no. The Bosche have found the location of the art from the Louvre, hidden in the countryside. They will break in and steal it any minute, they are already massing their men."

There was a pause, LeBeau stamping his feet impatiently. "You mean, the Krauts are going to steal some paintings?" asked Carter finally, sounding both confused and unconvinced.

LeBeau nearly spat, barely restrained himself from shaking the man. "Not just paintings! This is the history of France, the pride and treasures of my nation! Our most important possessions, one of the few things the pigs have not gotten their filthy hands on. We must contact the nearest Underground radio station and have them send the message. The Bosche might be preparing to search _even now_!"

"Well, we could go to Franz in Hammelburg I guess," said Carter, still doubtful.

LeBeau suppressed a cry of irritation, a spike of pain hammering through his head at the man's slowness. "_Think_, Carter," he repeated, trying to muster the huge wall of emotion, of raw _need_ into an argument the American could understand. "The truck has a range of ten miles, it could pick up a signal from town. We must go elsewhere, must go _now_."

There was a quiet click, and LeBeau found himself staring into the dazzling bulb of a flashlight. Although the wattage was quite low, in the darkness it was blinding and immediately burned a bright circle onto his retinas as he winced and turned away. "What are you _doing_?" he hissed, reaching out blindly to grab it.

"You're bleeding," answered Carter, knocking his hand away. "And you're not breathing right, either. You were knocked out for a while back there."

"I wasn't, I was just catching my breath after having it crushed out. Just bruises, I'm _fine_," replied LeBeau in a quick stream, reaching up to his head. The splitting pain in his skull was centred in his right temple, throbbing with each heartbeat, and when he cracked his eyes open again his fingertips came away red in the torch's white glare. "It's just a cut. I ran into a wall." He dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at his head, then tucked it under the lip of his hat and drew it down over the tight centre of pain. "There. Fine. Come on, we need to go to…" he tried to marshal his thoughts, drawing together his knowledge of local Underground cells with radio access, "Karlstadt, that's out of range of the truck." He took a step forward, and was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

"Louis, you're not thinking straight. You're hurt, you can't just go running across the country. It's 20 miles from here to Karlstadt!"

"And only 15 back to camp," replied LeBeau immediately. "We can do it in two hours, walking quickly. Four altogether. Plenty of time to be back before morning."

"We don't even know if anyone's at the radio there tonight!"

"If not, we run it ourselves," he snarled, trying to tug free of the American's hand.

"LeBeau, come on. This isn't –"

LeBeau swivelled, sharply enough that he shook off the sergeant's hand. "Isn't what? Isn't worth it? What do you know about worth? Your land, your home, it has never been invaded. You've never watched your city, your history, your treasures be stolen and defiled and destroyed. You've never had to fight to protect your culture, your language. You've never sat by and known that every day you spent cleaning rooms for your enemy, cooking them gourmet meals and serving them like a dog, was a day they spent tearing your home to pieces and polluting your cities and outraging your women. We have _so little left_, so very little that they have not touched. And you tell me that this, our most important art, is _not worth it_? Then I will go alone; you go back to camp and report to the colonel." He stormed by the man – the young, foolish American – and began striding up the road.

"Louis," called Carter from behind him, sounding as if he'd been running. LeBeau didn't stop; Carter began to follow. "Louis, wait. I'll go. If it's so important, I'll go and give them the message. You should go back, have someone check out your head."

At any other time, the offer would have softened LeBeau's heart. But he was full of impatience, of patriotic fervour, and of stinging hatred for the Nazis, and all that flashed through his mind were Carter's mistakes. "And have you forget the location of the cache? Or the radio? _Non_ _merci_. _J'irai_; I will go."

He continued walking, one hand tight to the pain in his side, the other swinging to keep tempo with his pace.

In the quiet of the country night, he could just barely hear Carter following along behind.

* * *

><p>Although the fastest way to Karlstadt was through the forest, without a compass that was an excellent way to get lost. Instead they took the main road, crunching along the icy dirt one behind the other in stormy silence. Carter made a lot of stomping and shuffling when they reached the turn-off for the camp, caught between two options like a puppy uncertain which choice would bring him a prize. LeBeau cut straight on without stopping, spine stiff with resolution. Eventually, Carter continued on behind him.<p>

It wasn't surprising. LeBeau had hoped he would return to camp, would report to Hogan as he had suggested. Wouldn't slow him down with his clumsiness and absentminded mistakes. But right now, hot with anxiety and fear, all LeBeau could think was that making things easy wasn't in Carter's nature.

If it had been anyone else, he thought, it would have been easier. Newkirk would understand, he knew, would gripe and whine while leading the way. Kinch could be _made_ to understand, and once he did he would carry out any mission with determined efficiency. Hogan didn't need to understand, didn't need to sympathise or empathise. He would simply complete his orders, would cut a path through stone to do so if need be.

But no. He had been stuck with Carter. Carter, whose idea of efficiency was twice the amount of dynamite, whose idea of speed was hitching a ride with the first car to drive by. Carter, who was hazy on the difference between Paris the city and Paris the man. Carter, who right now was trotting along behind him, cracking forcefully over branches and frozen puddles.

Head throbbing, LeBeau snarled silently and carried on, trying to ignore the man trailing him.

* * *

><p>Karlstadt was a smaller city than Hammelburg. LeBeau had only been there once, and that had been in the staff car. Still, he had a sharp memory and better had recently briefed a Hammelburg agent on the location of the Karlstadt cell.<p>

They came down out of the valley with a soft wind in their faces, LeBeau panting hard against the ever-present stitch in his side. The pricking, needling anxiety driving him was beginning to die away, to fade out of his veins leaving him feeling cold and shivery. Even his irritation with the American had mostly bled away, leaving him simply tired. He reached up to straighten his hat, pulling the brim low over the cut on his forehead, and felt himself stumble as the wound flared painfully. Behind him gravel crunched loudly, but he straightened and kept going, jaw clenched tight.

The Karlstadt faction of the Underground was based out of an old farmhouse's root cellar on the outskirts of the town. In the dark, it was hard to pick out the right house from the road; they took a wrong turn and headed halfway up the drive before LeBeau spotted his mistake and circled back.

The proper house had no lights on, no sign of life in the wintery night. It was too dark to read his watch, but LeBeau estimated the time at close to midnight. The porch was white, and glowed faintly in the moonlight, the house itself a darker silhouette against the gently-sloped farmland.

LeBeau stopped at the foot of the porch steps, turning to Carter with a flat expression. A small sliver of light was glinting off the man's glasses, a tiny crescent moon.

"You'll have to translate," he said stonily. His own German was passable, but Carter's was better, and they couldn't risk any confusion.

"Sure," agreed Carter easily. LeBeau sighed, but mounted the stairs. The motion was somehow much different than that of regular walking, and his ribs twisted painfully against his muscles as he climbed, biting off a curse.

The door was pale, probably whitewashed at least, and shuddered in its frame when he knocked on it. It took nearly five minutes for the lights to go on in the house, shining buttery yellow through hairline cracks in the door. LeBeau stepped back, right into Carter behind him. He started to turn, just as there was a rattle from the door and it opened a few inches.

What little LeBeau could see of the man behind it showed him to be tall and middle-aged at the oldest, with dark hair and dark clothes.

"_Ja? Was wünschen Sie?_"

LeBeau elbowed Carter, who stepped forward and answered in the same. "Um, we're from – I mean, do you like walking your dog in the park?"

The door creaked slightly, as the man shifted his weight. "Only in the springtime," he answered, cautiously.

"I prefer the fall," said Carter, finishing the code. It was one of the lesser-used ones, specifically for unexpected situations. As soon as it was used once, it was replaced.

"What are you doing here at this time of night?"

"We need you to send a message. To London."

"Hsst," hissed the man. He pulled the door open, and turned to speak to someone over his shoulder. "It's all right, Greta. Put out the lights, and go back to bed."

Further back in the house, a light went off, then another. The man let them into the hallway, closing the door behind them, and then through the dark house to the kitchen at the back.

"Alright, what is it?" he asked, when they were standing on the clean tiles.

"We need you to send a message to London," repeated Carter. "Right away. We're from Stalag 13, but we can't use our radio."

"You are Colonel Hogan's men? We had no notice you were coming."

"It was kind of a surprise. But it's real important. You've got to send it right away."

"Very well." A match struck, illuminating a tiny sphere of light in the darkness, and the man put it to a candle. With just that small flame, LeBeau could see the outlines of the kitchen, the dull iron stove and shining tile. The Underground operative went over to a wooden sideboard and pulled it open, fished out a pencil and paper from inside it. They followed him, stopping to stand behind him. "Alright, what is it?"

"Tell him," cut in LeBeau in English, "it is about the art from the Louvre. It has been hidden until now at the Château de Saumur." He paused, waited for Carter to relay the information. "The Nazis have found out the region it is in, to the nearest town. The art must be moved _immediately_ to prevent its capture. Do you have it?"

Carter nodded, still halfway through his translation. It was a bizarre scene, the American translating for the Frenchman, while by the light of a sole candle in a farm kitchen a German wrote it all down. On the big screen it would have been humorous, perhaps even ridiculously clandestine. But for the three of them here and now, there was nothing but a deadly seriousness.

"That is all?" asked the German, when Carter fell silent and he finished scribbling.

Carter looked to LeBeau, who let out a deep breath and nodded and spoke in his own poorer German. "That is all. Please send it at once."

"Yes, yes, I understand. Should I send it under my own name?"

LeBeau shrugged. "It doesn't matter. That's fine. You can say it came from Papa Bear, if it's important."

The man nodded, and blew out the candle. "Very well. This way, please."

In the darkness, eyes even poorer at picking up shapes after the candle's flare, they could only follow their hosts footsteps. Fortunately it was a straight shot down the hall to the front door. LeBeau smiled grimly; the man was eager to get rid of them. Well, that was hardly surprising. He thanked him anyway.

Walking out of the dark house into the cold air, LeBeau felt almost as if he had been deboned. With his job completed, with the message sent and if God was merciful the treasures saved, the tightly coiled spring of stress and anxiety and pure acidic adrenaline had simply uncoiled and slipped away leaving him feeling cold and limp. He stumbled down the stairs, tripped at the bottom and would have planted face-first into a frosty flower bed if Carter hadn't caught his shoulder.

"Louis –"

"I'm fine." He straightened, waving the man off. And tipped dizzily as his head throbbed, vision whiting out momentarily. "Just tired," he slurred.

"You cracked your head real hard. You shouldn't be walking around, really."

"Yes, well, I don't think the colonel would be impressed if we called home for a ride." He struck out towards the drive, squinting to try to focus his eyes.

"I don't think he'd be much happier if you fell into a ditch on the way back," said Carter without any irony, hooking LeBeau's elbow and tugging him towards the centre of the road. And then steadying him when the pull tipped him off balance. "You really _did_ crack your head, didn't you?" he said quietly, mostly to himself. And then, to LeBeau, "I don't think you should walk back."

"_Et bien_, I already said, we have no choice!" snarled LeBeau, regretting it immediately as he tried to stifle the instinctive clutch at his head.

"Sure we do." In the poor light, LeBeau heard Carter stop but couldn't see him well enough to know more than that. And then, without warning, the sergeant backed right up into him from below. LeBeau reached out to push him away and the man stood, picking LeBeau up along with him, the Frenchman throwing his arms around Carter's shoulders to keep from falling off backwards. Then Carter had grabbed his legs and jolted him up to sit properly against his back, LeBeau's jaw nearly resting on his shoulders.

"Carter! _Qu'est-ce-que tu fais?_ Put me down!"

"I told you, you shouldn't be walking."

"You can't carry me all the way back to camp!"

"Why not? You're not that heavy. I used to carry Mary Jane home from school every day in the winter, and that was five miles through snow."

"I am not your girlfriend. I am certainly not a girl, and at this very moment I am not entirely sure I am your friend, either!" Even as he snapped it out, though, he was rolling his eyes. It really was a very Carter thing to do. Hogan or Kinch would have wrangled a car back to camp somehow, he was sure. Newkirk probably would have insisted they spend the night at some pretty girl's house. Only Carter would choose the option of carrying him home.

"Yeah, well, you're not much bigger than her, either," returned Carter, and LeBeau could hear the smile in his voice. He sighed, and allowed himself to untense.

"Carter, sometimes, I think you are completely insane."

"Funny, you know, Mary Jane used to say that too."

* * *

><p>The trip out had been long and painful, but, LeBeau was realising, walking had kept him warm. The night wasn't that cold, surely only a few degrees below freezing at the most, but he was finding now that sitting inactive as he was the chill was seeping in through his coat and settling in his bones. Overhead, the stars were clear and hard as crystal, the moon cool and crisp. The air smelled of winter, of frost and pine and autumn's still-decomposing leaves, although that was hard to pick up over Carter's aftershave and the dirt and dust in his civilian clothes.<p>

Somewhat to LeBeau's surprise, the sergeant didn't seem to be having much trouble carrying him. He was striding through the woods directly beside the road, just far enough in that a simple duck would conceal him from any car that came along. Two men walking in the middle of the country at night were suspicious, but one man carrying another well past midnight was an automatic detainment for questioning. The path was uneven, though, and bumping along on Carter's back LeBeau was beginning to think it might be better to simply fall asleep than stay awake through the cold and the aching.

Carter, predictably, didn't agree. More irritatingly, he had taken to jogging LeBeau when the smaller man began to slip down his back.

"Hey, Louis. C'mon, we're not there yet."

"I know that. We are far from being there yet, so it's a good time to sleep."

"No, it's not. No sleeping after head-wounds. Remember that session we had to take with Wilson? And you knew all about burns and cuts?"

"I worked in a kitchen, Carter, of c-course I would. You nearly strangled Newkirk."

"He wasn't very good at playing dead."

"He was nearly much b-better." LeBeau tensed, trying to stifle his shivers and not succeeding.

Carter paused without speaking.

"What?"

He still said nothing, but after a moment turned towards the road. He climbed up out of the underbrush onto the first surface of the road, crossing it quickly, and then back down into the brush on the other side.

"Why d-did you do that?" asked LeBeau, turning to look back at the road. There was no sign of any cars.

Instead of turning to walk parallel to the road, he kept going straight, right into the woods.

"What are you doing? The road's that way! We'll get lost!"

"This way's faster. We can cut off three or four miles," said Carter, straightforwardly.

"Until we get lost, and spend days wandering around in the woods!" returned LeBeau, shaking his shoulder. "Go back t-to the road!"

"We won't get lost."

"You get lost looking for the tunnel entrance!"

"That's different."

"How is it different? It's entirely the same! You've never even b-been through these woods before!"

"Don't worry; we won't get lost. Relax, Louis, we'll get back faster this way."

"You _are_ insane," groaned LeBeau, dropping back against him, tired from his protesting.

"Nope. Just a country guy."

* * *

><p>LeBeau had no idea where they were. He didn't even have much idea of how long they'd been walking for. In the dark all the trees looked identical when he even saw them at all, every clearing the same as the last. They could have been going in circles for all he knew – probably they were. But Carter seemed to have a clear idea of where he was going, seemed to have no trouble navigating the forest. Oh, he was clumsy about it, tripping over bushes and fallen branches, but he hadn't run straight into anything yet, and he hadn't once paused for more than a moment.<p>

LeBeau sighed, and let his head nod. And was immediately jolted awake as Carter hopped a few steps, pushing him up further on the sergeant's back.

"I knew you shouldn't have come," he said quietly.

"Of course I should have," gritted out LeBeau. "I have served France – there is nothing more important."

Carter left that alone, said simply, "I could have done it."

"Even if you could have," allowed LeBeau, resting his jaw on Carter's shoulder again, "I couldn't not have gone."

"Maybe," said Carter doubtfully.

"There is no maybe – of course I had to go. But you wouldn't understand. France is nothing but a name to you." He closed his eyes, slipping back gently towards sleep again.

"So tell me about it." Carter's voice startled him out of it, again.

LeBeau sighed, head dropping. "How can I tell you? It is the best and most beautiful place in the world. How can I describe that?" He was slurring his words against Carter's shoulder.

"Well, what's Paris like? You live in the city, right?"

"_Oui, bien sûr_, in the city. In the _onziem arrondisement_, the 11th district. It borders the river Seine, and is full of restaurants and cafes, of galleries and shops. In the centre of the city, there are hundreds of monumental buildings, of churches and museums and gardens. There is always something to do, always someplace to visit, always something to see."

"That sounds… big. Busy."

"Paris is alive. Alive with delicious smells and magnificent sights. Alive with people, with beautiful women and sophisticated men, and with laughing children." At least, it had been before this war, before the _Bosche_ invaded it. With luck, with prayers, with their hard work, it would be again.

"You really love it, huh?" Carter's voice was soft, nostalgic.

LeBeau straightened slightly, heart tightening. "It is my home, and the best place in this world. How could I not?"

"I guess when you put it like that," said Carter, straining slightly as he looked straight up without stopping, stumbled on something, and then continued on.

"You don't understand," said LeBeau, turning his head.

Carter laughed soundlessly, just a jerk of his shoulders. "Nope. Not really. Never been to a big city before, 'cept New York for two days when I shipped out."

"And before that, nowhere. For your whole life, nowhere. I pity you."

"For what?"

"For what?" LeBeau straightened, incredulous. "You have only once walked through a huge city, only for a few moments felt the press of your countrymen around you, hardly seen the truly fabulous women, eaten real _haut cuisine_, seen the thousands of lights at night from a tower. There is no art in the country, no fashion, no _life_. How could you love a place like that? How could you fight for it?" The words poured out of him like water from a sieve, the barrier, the distance he had felt so strongly between him and the American all night at their back. His head aching from the deluge, LeBeau pulled himself higher on Carter's back and relaxed, eyes closed.

The sergeant was quiet for a while, so long he almost drifted off again to the backdrop of rustling needles and branches snapping. When he finally spoke, it was in a quiet, thoughtful tone.

"Maybe you're right. I've never seen the Eiffel Tower or the Champs D'easily like you –" LeBeau winced at the pronunciation, "– or the Parliament buildings in London like Peter, or lived in Chicago like Kinch. Everyone I knew lived his whole life in Dakota; the furthest from home my mother ever went was Minneapolis, and she hated it.

"All there is out there is land. Miles and miles of open land stretched out in front of you, and all of it yours. Nothing to fence you in, nothing to tie you down. No concrete, no glass buildings, no smog. Nothing but the earth and the sky. You always know where you are, and you always know who you are. And if you forget, all you ever have to do is look up." Carter suited the action to the motion. LeBeau, hypnotised by the tone despite himself, looked up and saw the stars through the naked branches above. Stared up at them, as if he'd never seen them before. And knew how Carter was so sure of his route.

"They can't direct me to the tunnel, but I'll never be really lost so long's I can see them. Y'know what I remember about New York?"

"No," said LeBeau, quietly, feeling cold.

"I couldn't. At night, in the middle of the city, all there is is light. You can't really see the stars, not the faint ones. Can't see the land, either. It's like a huge, metal cage. How could you love that?"

There was no rebuke in his voice, no irony, no anger. Just simple, innocent incomprehension.

"And that's why you fight." It made sense, made a sour, bitter kind of sense because LeBeau knew he could never understand it. Because just at this moment, Carter seemed a lot deeper than he had ever imagined. Because he had misjudged the man.

"What? No. I fight because I was drafted," answered Carter light-heartedly, completely shattering the moment.

"_T'es quelque chose, toi_," muttered LeBeau.

"What?"

LeBeau sighed. "Are we there yet?"

"Not too much further. I think I recognize that tree."

"Can you even _see_ the tree?"

"Well, if I kind of squint, it looks a bit like my Aunt Mabel, and –" Carter rambled on, LeBeau letting the words wash over him like mist. Maybe the American's hidden depths were quite shallow, after all. Maybe he had only been a little harsh in his judgement. "– and it turned out she actually was pretty good at cooking," he finished. And then, "Hey, look."

LeBeau opened his eyes to peer over the sergeant's shoulder, and recognized a familiar clearing. They were only a few minutes from the tunnel.

"_Sacre –!_ You did it!" He was not only impressed despite himself, he was mildly shocked.

"Well, it was kind of luck. I figured even if we didn't come across the camp, we'd hit the road before we went too far."

LeBeau frowned. "So that story about navigating by the stars was made up? All that about always knowing where you are?"

Carter stopped without a warning, jerking LeBeau slightly. Around them, the woods were nearly silent. Only the whisper of the wind in the branches, the shifting of night birds in the bushes broke the silence.

"It was true. The difference between north and north-west is a lot broader than two hundred yards. Why? If I had guessed, it would mean I loved my home less?" He paused, shifted his weight. "You're right, you know. I don't understand what it's like to have all that art and fashion and old buildings. We don't have any of those things. All we have is our land, and our language, and our people.

"My grandfather fought for it, along with Sitting Bull and the rest of the Lakota warriors, and lost. Now we have to hold deeds for land that's always been ours, and our language and culture are dying out. But the land's still there, and we're still there. If I hadn't been drafted before December, I would have enlisted then. Fighting for someone else's home, when it's all we can do to keep ours? I'm not like you and Peter, and the colonel and Kinch. I'm not strong enough to do that. But fighting for my own? You bet I would."

Quick and hot as a shot, his words from earlier filled with irritation and anxiety and frustration cut into him, _What do you know about worth? Your land, your home, it has never been invaded. You've never watched your city, your history, your treasures be stolen and defiled and destroyed. You've never had to fight to protect your culture, your language._ LeBeau shivered, sick with himself.

"Carter…"

The sergeant cleared his throat, embarrassed. "Sorry. That's, uh, that's not important. Just forget about it." He started walking again, and was startled into stopping when LeBeau twisted so hard he freed himself and fell to the ground. He had to grab at Carter's arm to keep his balance, and turned the movement into a wrench to spin the man around.

"No. It is important. And I am sorry, for assuming… for rating my reasons above your own."

"Well, your home _is_ being invaded," said Carter with irritating reasonableness.

"Yes. But that is no excuse to assume – to place myself over you. We are allies, not competitors. No matter the stakes at home, _our_ risks are the same."

Carter was standing with his back to the moon; LeBeau couldn't see his face at all, but he had the impression that Carter could see his clearly. Which was stupid, the light wasn't that much better. But maybe a man who had spent his entire life looking out at prairie nights had sharper eyes. Maybe for some things LeBeau had never even thought to look for.

"Okay," said Carter affably, as if agreeing to play cards. LeBeau's eyes narrowed, searched for facetiousness in the darkness. It was less that he had underestimated Carter than that he had simply missed an entire facet of the man. Failed to consider just what Carter was, other than American.

He had a niggling idea that he wouldn't be able to apply the label "American" so cavalierly anymore.

"You okay to climb down?" Carter's voice broke the quiet, causing LeBeau to jump and wince.

"Yes, of course." He swatted Carter's hand away from his elbow, and then was forced to accept it a few feet later when he stumbled over something he couldn't see.

"Alright," conceded Carter doubtfully, whispering as they weaved through the last few trees. "You go first."

"Fine," he muttered, dropping down at a bush just behind the tunnel to let the spotlight flash overhead. It seemed like days since they left, hours wrenched out by pain and fear and anxiety. Went to stand, and then paused.

"Andrew?"

"Yeah?"

"Perhaps you can tell me about North Dakota, later. Now that I think about it, I find I hardly know anything about it."

In the darkness, he couldn't see it, but he heard the man's smile all the same. "Sure. I'd like that."

The light swept over again. LeBeau waited, dashed, and scrambled down into what, for now, passed as his home.

END

* * *

><p>Translations:<p>

_Mon Dieu que vous m'avez effrayé_: My God you scared me

_Ja? Was wünschen Sie_: Yes? What do you want?

_Qu'est-ce-que tu fais?_ What are you doing?

_T'es quelque chose, toi:_ You're really something


End file.
